Witi Ihimaera - Sky Dancer

At the other end of the telephone, Hoki heard the blast of the ship’s horn, so loud it set up a ringing in her ears. Skylark and Arnie must have been standing right next to it.

“Hoki? Are you there, Hoki? We’re on our way,” Skylark said.

Then Arnie was back on the line.

“Affirmative, Mother Ship. We have ignition.”

“Come on, Arnie,” Skylark yelled.

Once the wagon had been parked, Skylark raced to the ferry’s upper deck. Arnie hung back.

“What’s the problem?” Skylark asked.

Arnie was looking ahead at the sea. While the ferry was sheltered within Queen Charlotte Sound there was no problem. Out in the open water, the storm was waiting like a giant fist. “I should have realised,” he groaned, “that if the boat was delayed for so long conditions out there must be bad. That storm is really going to hammer the shit out of me.”

Sure enough, once the ferry entered Cook Strait the weather slammed it from all sides. It dipped and heaved; Arnie’s face turned an interesting shade of green, and he was promptly as sick as a dog. Other passengers were leaning over the rails or hastening below decks for help.

“I think I’ll join them,” Arnie said to Skylark. “Maybe they’ve got a nurse who can give me something.”

“Do you want me to come with you?” Skylark asked, concerned.

“No,” Arnie scowled as he made his way below. “I’d prefer pro- fession -al help, thanks.”

“See if I care,” Skylark called after him. Besides, she couldn’t see what the problem was. She had always revelled in stormy weather, wild wind and sea, and was both amused and mystified to find herself almost alone on the upper deck. Only she and an old man tanked to the gills with gin had not fled the elements. The ship dipped, the spray flew up and Skylark and the old man stood at the railing, at ease out here in the open. Out here she was free, she could be herself, and she had space to think clearly about all that had happened to her and Cora. The cold wind and spray from the sea sharpened her understanding of what was important and what wasn’t.

“I love you, Mum!” Skylark shouted.

She had always squarely confronted her challenges. No matter what lay before her, she would face the future head on.

Quarter of an hour later the weather turned really nasty. The old man saluted and left, and Skylark was in good humour when she decided it was time to check on Arnie.

“Some hero you turned out to be,” she said when she found him, collapsed and ill on a lower deck with other hapless seafarers.

“Do me a favour,” Arnie moaned. “Next time you’re on deck can you fall overboard?”

“Hear, hear,” said another passenger.

“Would you like something from the dining room?” Skylark asked sweetly. “A triple cheese burger perhaps?” She turned to the room at large. “Anybody like a burger with the works followed by an ice cream sundae?”

There was a chorus of moans. Arnie looked at her wanly. “I’d ask you to have mercy, but I know you wouldn’t know how to.”

“Didn’t you know?” Skylark asked. “I’m hard-hearted, and I like myself this way.” Even as she said it, Skylark knew it wasn’t true. It was simply that she had learnt the art of the caustic rejoinder. Growing up in a society that favoured pretty over plain, and compliant over stroppy, she had honed her skills with the fast put-down; it was the only way to get people to back up, and back off, before they could get a chance to put her down. The big voice and big attitude just seemed to grow with it.

As Arnie’s seasickness worsened, however, Skylark’s belligerence lessened and she began to feel sorry for him. He might be a pint-sized no-brain jock in overalls, but you should be kind to dumb animals, she mediated with herself. Arnie was half lying back, but he looked uncomfortable. His brow was drenched with sweat, his hair was slicked down with perspiration, and he was breathing in an awful way. When the ferry made a sudden heave and Arnie moaned and joined the rush for the toilets, Skylark took a deep breath and made a decision:

“I will not play at nurse, nor will I be mother, but —”

While their owners were in the toilets, Skylark swiped some of the vacated pillows and made up Arnie a better resting pallet. She ignored the yelps of protests as the previous owners returned — after all, in a situation like this, it was the survival of the fittest — and when Arnie came back she accepted his moan of gratitude as thanks enough. Even so, he almost ruined it.

“How much are you charging me?” he asked.

“Nothing. But I’m driving when we get to Wellington.”

“Oh no you won’t,” Arnie said. “It’s my wagon, and it’s like your jersey. Anybody else who touches it gets wasted.”

Throughout the rest of the crossing Skylark got Arnie to sit up rather than lie down. She held a bowl to his mouth whenever he got sick, and rinsed it out in the loo. She wiped his face with a wet cloth. She urged him to drink water to prevent him from becoming dehydrated. She even made a trip to the dining room to get him some clear soup and, although he protested, held his head up and spooned it into him. But she left the best of her ministrations till last. When, thirty minutes out from Wellington, Arnie asked, “How much longer?” she said, “Only an hour to go.” The result was that when the ferry reached the calmer water of Wellington Heads, the earlier arrival made Arnie’s face clear with a joyous sense of relief. He smiled his thanks, and Skylark was surprised to see that one of his eyes was green, the other was brown. They gave his face an odd, appealing look.

Wellington was lashed with rain squalls that came up from the south and cracked across the city, stinging every exposed piece of skin. The wind rattled the high-rise buildings, and only a few stupid fools were out, poking vainly at the rain with broken umbrellas. The ferry docked, bumping into its moorings, and Skylark helped Arnie down to the car deck, ready to join the exodus of vehicles. Sheepishly, Arnie handed over the keys.

“I guess you’ll have to drive after all,” he said. No matter that the ship had docked, he was heaving back and forth just like the sea. He was also feeling drowsy from pills the nurse had given him to take just before landing. She’d handed him four, with the instructions to take one now and three later — but what the heck, he’d taken them all at the same time. After all, if one pill would get you better, four would do the job quicker, right?

“It’s four-wheel drive,” Arnie said as Skylark started the ute. “Can you manage? You’ll need to fill up soon. Ultimate unleaded, I don’t like any of the other brands. I think the oil’s okay but just watch the pressure. I’m sorry, Skylark, I feel like I’m letting you down.”

Skylark had wanted to drive this baby even since she’d seen it. She gave Arnie an evil smile. “You’re putting yourself into my hands? Heh heh heh —”

By the time the ferry doors opened, Arnie was out like a light. Skylark looked at her watch. It was just after eleven in the morning. Eight hours to Auckland. Another six to Parengarenga. Add another three or four hours for rest stops, lunch and dinner. If they drove through the night they’d make Parengarenga by the next morning. She gave the ute a touch of juice, took off the handbrake, added some acceleration and the ute leapt onto the dock.

“Kaa. Kaa .”

Seagulls swooped low across the windscreen, crying harshly. Skylark gave a gasp of fear. Her heart was racing. Had they seen her? No. Luckily, the windscreen was smattered with rain. She watched as a group of six chased a seventh away from a pie that somebody had thrown onto the ground. Then they returned and began fighting over the pie. Tearing at it with their sharp beaks. Raging at each other.